


A Good Navy Man

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Drown Malcolm Reed Month, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-05
Updated: 2006-03-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Many kinds of distance. Postep, 2.03 "Minefield." (11/24/2003)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

  
Author's notes: Much thanks and love to Squeakyâ€”the best of the betas.  


* * *

In your dream, your son is thrashing, calling for his sister. And he is drowning.

You remember this: hearing his voice, moving, the cold shock of the water after the astonishing heat of the sun. The smell. The taste of salt.

Maddie saved him, pushed him up. She's a good girl. Good and brave. A proper Reed and you're proud of her. All that goes through your mind as you're swimming, arms moving like you're fighting the waves, because if you don't fight they'll take him; take him away and leave you without a son.

Your hands slice the water, and then your arm is across your son's chest—it is so terribly large, his little body is so terribly thin—and you're pulling him against you, and he is fighting you like he was fighting the water; but like the water you are stronger and you kick out with your legs and pull him against you so that his small head is above the surface as you swim with him to shore.

And you are angry. So angry that he could have done this to you, that he could have nearly let the water take him. That he could have denied you his life. Part of you is surprised at this, that you should feel this kind of anger. After all: by now you should be used to things being taken.

But not this time. Not your son. You will beat back the water and drag him to safety, and nothing will ever take him. Even if he fights you. Even if he hates you for it. You will never let him drown.

But in your dream, when you look down at him, he's full-grown. And his eyes are blank and drowned, reflecting starlight. And he is already dead.

* * *

After, you like awake in the darkness.

Your wife sleeps beside you, oblivious. You wish she were awake, but then, there's no reason for it. You never tell her your dreams.

You have never had dreams, none of your own. No fawning hopes; you had goals, you had ambition. You were proud of yourself, you remember—you did what was expected of you, achieved as required. You were a good boy. A good son. A good Navy man.

You wonder what it means, to dream of your son drowning.

* * *

When you were very young your uncle died, under the water. He was in a submarine. Your own father died in a bed, decades later. You watched him struggling, trying so hard to live. He had been breathing as if he were fighting with water.

You always wondered if that's what it was like, at the end, when your uncle drowned, fighting with the water. You've always wondered if, at the end, he was still so afraid. Fear seems so pointless when there is no possibility of hope.

When you were a boy, after your uncle had died, you would play in the ocean. Floating; letting the water push and pull you: moving in and back like the waves. Pretending you were dead.

And now you've dreamed of Malcolm, that your son has drowned. But there are no waves where he is, no water.

* * *

The house is quiet at night, dark. Outside you can see the endless black of the water, stained with the reflection of the moon. The moon is full tonight, but he is so far away from it. It is impossible to imagine that this is no longer his sky.

He should have stayed, you think, and you are still angry with him. Reeds do not desert; they do not abandon.

You wonder if your son is dead: you dreamed of him drowning. But you have never believed in dreams.

And yet.

Your hand, white in the moonlight as you open the comm.

* * *

They are very far away now, and it takes minutes to make the connection. You imagine the beam, a tiny line out into space, fragile. You don't like waiting; you have never liked fragile things.

You remember the young woman who answers. She is small, Asian, pleasant. Now she looks wan and tired, and you remember your dream.

"I'd like to speak to Lieutenant Reed," you say, mindful of his rank, mindful of protocol. The young woman blinks, and hesitates, and you want to shout at her except that she asks you politely to wait a minute—she's going to get the Captain.

The captain, you think. But there was no way Malcolm could have drowned.

"Good evening," he says, and you wonder which evening he means—his or yours, though now it's well into night—"I understand that you wanted to speak to Malcolm?" It occurs to you that you don't appreciate this stranger using your son's given name.

"That's right," you say, and you wait, because you don't like the captain's expression. You watch him struggle, trying to find words to tell you what you are now certain of, and you are so angry that your heart hurts. But you wait. Reeds do not abandon.

"How did you know he was injured?" He asks finally, and your heart hurts and you remember your dream.

"I didn't," you say, and then: "is he dead?" because you don't like waiting.

"No!" The captain says quickly, "no—he's alive. He's all right." He looks away for a moment, and you can feel the space, the beam, stretching for eons between you. "He was injured," he says again. "We were attacked..." He smiles, almost sadly. "Your son was extremely brave."

He was brave. He's not dead and he was brave. "How was he injured?"

The captain blinks, as if you have no right to ask that question. "His leg," he says at last. "He was—stabbed, through the thigh. But it's healed—no permanent damage."

"Good," because that's all you can think of to say. And then, because he's a captain: "Thank you." You don't call him _sir_ , though—ships belong on the ocean.

"Would you like to speak to him?"

And you hesitate. It's been a while.

But what you say is, "No. I'm sure he's on duty. I wouldn't want to disturb him." Your hand goes to the disconnect button, quick and white as a ghost in the moonlight, if you believed in ghosts. "Thank you for your time."

You shut the comm. off. The captain is no doubt a very busy man.

And what would you say to your son, after all? That you had a dream? He was injured; he's alive. What more is there to say than that? You already have the important information.

But still you stay there: thinking of space, of water. Of a little boy struggling in your arms.

You stay there thinking for a long time.


End file.
